


Drunken Sailors

by hollowmagic



Category: Team Fortress 2
Genre: Attempt at Humor, Bar, Drunk Driving, Drunk Engineer (Team Fortress 2), Drunk Heavy (Team Fortress 2), Drunk Soldier (Team Fortress 2), Drunkenness, Excessive Drinking, Gen, Hangover, Sober Scour (Team Fortress 2), Teamwork, driving with drunk people
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-11-23
Updated: 2020-12-07
Packaged: 2021-03-10 04:14:52
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,255
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27687449
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollowmagic/pseuds/hollowmagic
Summary: Scout goes to the bathroom for literally five minutes and needs help getting his drunk teammates back to the base.
Relationships: Medic & Scout (Team Fortress 2)
Comments: 16
Kudos: 69





	1. Drunken Pipe Bombs

**Author's Note:**

> Putting it out there, I had an entirely different plot idea when I started, but it evolved into this. 
> 
> Man.

They drank the place dry.

Taking one ginormous, final swig, Demo hollers a loud whoop as he crashes to the floor in a drunken stupor. He’s knocked out instantly. All around is a wild crescendo of laughter from middle aged men, canceling the sound of the staticky jukebox, turning the old Teufort bar into a place of joy.

Or, for them, at least.

If the opening hook hadn’t been clear as day before, here’s a catch-up:

_They drank the place dry._

“Are you freakin’ serious?” Scout can’t even believe his ears. Or his eyes. The place was perfectly fine when he entered a few minutes ago, he’ll give it that, but now it just looks like a bunch of monkeys went apeshit in here! He knows proper hygiene when he sees it—his Ma pounded it into his brain his entire life until every speck of dust was annihilated. She’d die of heart failure just by _looking_ at this!

“Holy crap,” he says in his own drunken astoundment. “I literally just came back from da bathroom, what da hell happened in ‘ere?”

“Toundamend…”

Engineer’s a sorry sight. Scout quirks a brow at the man face down at their table, the rest of the team nowhere in sight. “Speak up, Jackhammer.”

“Touna— _hic_ —menn!”

“‘Tounamen’? You hadda freakin’ _tournament?_ In _what?_ ”

“Drinken, boyyy…”

There’s an on-cue wallop somewhere in the background. Abysmal stenches of nicotine and liquor reek the air, a bomb to the senses that makes Scout almost double over and retch. He’d come here in hopes of finding some lonely ladies to snatch up—or widows, he doesn’t judge—but instead he got a bunker full of drunk old dudes who look like they haven’t combed their hair or showered since last Smissmass.

Right. Teufort is the least classiest place in the world. How could he forget.

And yet the shock just keeps on coming like ammo rounds when Scout marvels at the clock. “It’s been five freakin’ minutes! We _just_ got ‘ere, how da hell is everybody wasted already?!”

_“We have a winner!!”_

Scout turns to the main attraction up front, where the porky bartender—Chett Massachusetts, the weirdest name Scout’s ever heard—is holding up the thick arm of a familiar Russian face. Heavy’s usually stoic glare is wiped a clean slate, replaced by a level of pride Scout never thought imaginable. The split-second delay of silence briskly erupts into a full-on parade of cheers, people sobbing into each other’s shoulders like it's armistice day.

“Teufort’s 15th Annual Drinking Tournament has a _biiiiiig_ winner!” Chett Massachusetts goads. If it weren’t for the apparently insane amount of alcohol in Heavy’s system, the stout man would be having a one-way ticket to the pain train.

Meanwhile Engineer, acting like his spine had decimated, cranes his neck to the front and ultimately topples over like a sack of potatoes on the floor.

“Yippee-ki-yaaayyyy…!”

“I have no words.”

He really doesn’t. Less he can figure out a good phrase to sum up this situation, he’s got nothing. Scout’s entire night has been ruined in less than ten minutes of getting here, and better yet, the only one with a brain got his lights knocked out. Engineer even _told_ him on the way here that he tagged along because he didn’t want things getting out of hand.

What the hell did he drink, anyway?

The thought processes, taking Scout’s attention, the mess of empty mugs littering the wooden table being the key. A gallon-sized bottle rests innocently on its side, yet proven guilty when Scout takes it and finds it light as a feather.

_‘Devil Springs Vodka.’_

Its contents are completely drained.

Eyes blown wide, Scout nudges Engineer with his foot. “Hey, you ain’t tellin’ me ya drank dis, right?”

“Disssspenssser.”

“Da _whoooole_ freakin’ thing?”

“I am the god of ponies.”

“Ya didn’t drink it _straight_ from dis, didja...?”

“Hot damn!” the hardhat hoots, abruptly realizing he isn’t sitting in a chair anymore.

The Scout may have no idea what his times tables are, but he’s been alive long enough to know nobody should drink this stuff straight from the cap. The Engineer may as well have just chugged pure ethanol.

“You have _got_ be kiddin’ me.”

_“WRRRONG, MAGGOT!!”_

The Soldier’s four-hundred-decibel voice barges in out of absolutely _nowhere_ and startles Scout to high heaven. His scream draws in unwanted attention, the Scout clinging to the rafters as laughter bellows across the land.

The Soldier laughs too, high and mighty taunts interrupted by hiccups and awkward movements. What throws Scout off was the fact that the man had gone to the bathroom _with_ him, entering at the same time but leaving a minute or two before. How much did he _miss?!_

The frightened runner drops right on top of the drunk patriot, winding him as the floorboards creak beneath. _“WWWATCH IT,_ Cottontail!” His words are slurred and sloppy, a stew of gross profanity. “Or I will shove thisss foot right up yourrrr footlocker…”

Oh god no.

Soldier drops like a deadweight. The Engineer’s impression of Seabiscuit is pain in the form of sound.

Oh _god,_ no.

Scout searches the room in a mild panic for the others.

_No no no no no, no._

Heavy remains at the front, standing on the bar like a podium to sustain his accomplishment. Demo is out of this world, hanging off his barstool like a piece of laundry, not even aware of his surroundings. Scout wouldn’t be surprised if he’s dead.

_Please, no._

He can’t be the only sober one here.

Over yonder the sea of sweaty drunk dudes he struggles to locate the trademark glasses of his teammate. Medic had formulated an excuse that was somehow related to Engineer’s reasoning, but Scout didn’t care nonetheless. Please, for the love of god, please let Medic be here, please let Medic be here, please let—

_There!_

The Scout nearly tumbles to the floor again as he scrambles for his feet, keeping his eyes locked on that one speck of color in the far corner of the establishment. It's a horror maze trying to get there. The bodies reek of vodka and strong liquor. It twists his stomach upside down as Scout is shoved up against them, trying to squeeze through but getting squashed like old fruit.

“Medic!” he calls over and over again, which progresses less and less of a call for help and more like a cry of pain. “Doc, I need ya right frickin’ now…”

Finally exiting that hellscape, his words drop dead at the scene before him.

The RED Scout stares.

The BLU Medic stares back.

“You… ain’t my Medic.”

“Nein…”


	2. Way, Hay and Up She Rises

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I’ve heard there are certain types of drunks.
> 
> Engie is officially a stupid drunk.

…Oh.

That is…

That is not the RED Medic.

The BLU Medic mirrors the shocked Scout, unmoving, two mannequins trapped in a staring contest. Chatter of people among them transform into white noise. Chett Massachusetts’s voice is suddenly so out of reach it's as if they’d been teleported to another planet.

That is most definitely not the RED Medic…

“Uhh…”

The Scout had _not_ expected this turn of events.

Neither did the BLU Medic, evidently.

The world drowns out around them as the dread seeps in. Shit… This entire week they had been shooting each other point-blank with bullets and needles, and no, Scout has _not_ forgotten that embarrassing minute-and-a-half battle when he completely missed every single shot with his scattergun, ending up with an ubersaw stuck in his sternum.

…Yeah, let’s not think about that.

But now they’re standing here face-to-face. It's like meeting an old bully from elementary school in public, where neither of them have turned out better from when they last saw each other.

“Uhh,” the BLU echoes right back. The Scout couldn’t have said it any better. “Guten tag?”

He answers with a half-hearted wave. “...Hey.”

…

Oh god, what now?

The BLU doesn’t look so sure about what to do, either. He’d apparently been sitting here by himself, being the only one present at the table with a half-full mug of booze. Looks like his first fill. He looks spooked—and rightfully so. The Scout had rushed over here in such a hurry it must have taken him completely by surprise.

“So uh,” the runner tries after an agonizing minute of nothing but the cacophony of drunk hollers in the background. “Dis is awkward, so I’m gunna, uh, y’know, see what’s goin’ on with de… uh… y’know de—de radio, da big radio thing, it ain’t lookin’ so hot right now, so uh—”

With each torturous word he warily stalked back into the sea from which he emerged. Enveloped, the Medic disappears from sight as Scout makes a complete 180 and books it back to his table, the cycle of the labyrinth worse than 2Fort’s sewer system.

_What da hell is da BLU Frankenstein doin’ ‘ere?! An’ where’s da otha one?!_

His heart’s pounding a thousand miles a minute. Soldier is missing when he returns—fan-fucking-tastic—but luckily the Engineer hasn’t moved an inch from the floor. Planes of his body are stamped with footprints. He looks like a fresh corpse. 

And to think this man has eleven PhDs.

“Alright hardhat, come on, up, we needa find doc— _our,_ our doc—an’ get outta ‘ere,” the Scout groans, first grabbing the drunk by his overalls, unintentionally startling him and getting a boot jabbed right in the solar plexus. It stings worse than a backstab, kicking the wind out of him and putting him in a coughing fit for a moment before ceasing his yield. This time he picks him up under the shoulders and eases him up onto his legs.

That ethanol must have killed off every single developed braincell of cognitive intelligence. “Ah’ _luv_ that lil’ gun…” Engineer giggles with a huge wasted smile. 

“Yeah ya do,” the Scout replies dryly. Shoving the mechanic back on the chair isn’t as easy as he imagined. He keeps lolling back and forth like he’s made of jelly, just barely keeping his head up. “C’mon dude, hold yourself togetha.”

“Scout, lemme tell ya, boyyy, ah’ am a gosh, darn, _GOD!”_

He yelled it so loud and so abrupt it actually made Scout jolt. The man is clinging to his shirt to hold himself up as he attempts to follow directions and get his shit together.

Engineer has definitely been drunk before, Scout being witness to it too, during those lax ceasefire evenings when everyone decided to put down their fists and enjoy life for once. He’s had one or two of the old man’s hillbilly beers. Never cared for the taste. They seemed to do the trick for rednecks, though Scout couldn’t find any plausible reason how getting drunk off that stuff was in any way pleasing. Engie _was_ always a little less sharp upon entering the state.

But this. 

This is just insanity.

“Th’ _GOD_ of yarramansssss… an’, an’ seabiscuits. With gravy crrream. Gun.”

“I ain’t catchin’ your drift ‘ere, dude. Yarra-what?”

That ethanol has done _something_ to him. “Ah’ am makin’ y’all a deeeeespittin’sir… fer th’ _pony_ _lady_ ,” he jabs Scout in the chest with his finger to make his point valid. 

“Pony—? Know what, forgeddit, dat ain’t important.” He’ll _laugh_ if Engineer isn’t dead by the end of the night. “Jus’, look—d’ya know where da doc went? An’ Soldier? We needa leave, like, right freakin’ now.”

“...Sawbones?”

“Yeah, yeah! Sawbones! _Where’d he freakin’ go?”_

The way the Engineer is searching his mushy brain for an answer is like watching the human equivalent of a blue screen. It takes two bleary groans and five whole seconds of intense intellectual calculations for him to jovially reply, “Boston!”

He slumps forward onto Scout right after.

“Right, Boston, okay. We jus’ gotta get ‘im back ‘ere from Boston, an’— _BOSTON?!”_

“Tea party?”

Panic is swelling faster than a freight train as Scout’s grip on the man’s overalls blanch his knuckles. “Whaddya mean he’s in freakin’ _Boston?!”_

Engineer’s vocal cords keep getting tangled. Despite the overwhelming dread knowing half his team is missing and an opposing enemy is literally a couple feet away, the Engineer’s incoherent mumbling about ponies and guns is the Scout’s last ray of hope disintegrating.

He does everything he can to get something out of the non-sequitur, shaking him, smacking him to attention, repeatedly asking the same question over all the noise, but all of it is fruitless in the end because all he gets out of that is, “Gid’sy up, Seabin!”

“Sea _biscuit!”_

 _“—Biscuit._ Stay gold, Sea— _hic_ —biscuit… stay gold.”

Eventually the Engineer can’t hold himself up any more, succumbing to what Scout assumes is the gallon of ethanol in his digestive tract, becoming less and less responsive until he finally stops moving altogether. 

…shit.

Why him?

“Ohh… dis… dis ain’t good…”

Scout can feel his face becoming paler and paler, the color draining, a migraine pronouncing itself as the truth of just how screwed he is right now dawns like the morning sun. A very, very agonizing morning sun.

This…

This is not good.

This is actually really freakin’ bad, because…

Engineer _drove_ them here…

He needs to find Medic _now._

“Okay, okay, relax, calm down! You’re da Scout, use ya noggin’! How likely is it for da geezer to go to Boston? In da middle of da night?”

Knowing Medic, that’s a 50/50 shot.

The hardhat isn’t one to lie, either.

“Great,” he says to no one as he haphazardly lets his teammate conk out on the table in a fit of frustration. “Fan-freakin’-taschtic. Doc is in freakin’ _Boston,_ apparently. Havin’ a swell time ‘ere, fellas.”

The wooden chairs aren’t as comfortable as they were ten minutes ago. What was supposed to be a fun night was soiled in no time flat, and Scout hasn’t even gotten a chance to try that fancy brew Demo kept pestering him about! Don’t girls usually go to bars, too? Not that he thinks any girl can top Miss Pauling, she just doesn’t seem the drinker type.

Engineer’s out, Soldier and Medic are god knows where, Demo probably doesn’t even remember how he got here, and right now Heavy is about as useful as the righteous bison. If only the Spy were here. As much as he hates his own guts for thinking that, the French bastard could actually be of use right now. 

Well… at least they’re playing Tom Jones. It's almost inaudible, but the jukebox is the only thing keeping the Scout sane in this predicament. Chett Massachusetts has good taste.

Heh. That name is still the stupidest thing. Scout can’t fathom what kind of humiliation must rise from introducing yourself as ‘Chett Massachusetts.’ Actually, it sounds funnier every time he— _wait a minute._

Wait just one darn second.

The Scout’s record player of a memory replays the last two minutes of his life.

_“Boston!”_

He said Boston…

Boston…

Boston… Massachusetts…

_…!_

The seat topples over from the force of the Scout sprinting to the bar.

* * *

  
Okay, good news and bad news.

Good news — Scout managed to find Soldier up at the bar with Heavy and Demo.

Bad news — Scout managed to find Soldier _drinking_ up at the bar with Heavy and Demo. Several rounds of liquor are gathered around them. Some of which happens to be the same stuff the Engineer killed his prefrontal cortex with. 

“—An’ then I grabbed Benedict Assface’s traitorous Nazi neck an’ _SHOVED_ it up his own red-coated ass!”

“...But you are wearing red coat.”

“Shhhh ** _UT_ ** it, commie!! I bet you wouldn’t know a— _hic_ — ** _TRUE_ ** American if he were looking you in the **_EYES!”_ **

“...Nyet, I am looking at him now.”

“...That... issss **_RIGHT!_** I **_AM_** a hot-blooded American! An’ I... sssstand on guard for thee... Wait...”

Right, so by gathering this information, the Scout can deduce that drinking straight ethanol seriously messes with someone’s head.

Soldier’s a complete wreck. Maybe even drunker than before. He looks like he might lose some screws any second now, elbows on the counter and swaying back and forth like elastic beams. The helmet shields his eyes, but his demeanor is atrociously lax compared to his usual self. On the other hand, the Heavy is all smiles and giggles, a complete 180 of his personality.

Meanwhile Demo is having the time of his life. “Aye lads, dunnae stop noo! ‘Tis only been’a ten minutes!”

Ten minutes in a shitstorm. Someone help him.

Worse news — talking to Chett Massachusetts is like talking to a god damn toaster.

“Mmmm, I don’t think I can help you,” Chett says in that sleazebag voice. “I can file a missing parent for you, if you want.”

Scout’s taken aback by the nonsense. “I ain’t — what? No, listen dude, I’m lookin’ for a guy wearin’ red, alright? Wait, no, lemme rephrase dat. I’m lookin’ for dis German guy, he’s got dis weird lookin’ hair an’ glasses—”

“I heard you the first time, kid. Want some milk while you wait for your dad to come back?”

“ _What?_ No! Wha—? He ain’t my freakin’ _dad!_ I’m bein’ serious ‘ere!”

“Hey, hey, relax! If you need to have your nap time, feel free to use the back room.” This time a couple eavesdroppers start snickering uncontrollably.

Hilarious.

The Scout pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m _twenty-four_ —whatevva! Listen, pal, I ain’t tryin’ ta pick a fight, alright? Didja see da weird old dude or didja not?”

Finally deciding the fun was over, Chett just shrugs. “Ehh, I did see someone like that, but he wasn’t wearing red. Check the corner over there.” He nods to the far corner inhabited by the earlier BLU Medic. The Scout cringes at the memory.

“Anyone else…?”

“Nope. If I had, he might have left a while ago. Less your pals here know a thing or two.”

They both turn to the three drunkards. Demo had passed out mid-sentence. The Soldier keeps slurring in words from O Canada to the Star Spangled Banner, and Heavy is currently on a long rant about his beloved Sascha.

 _Shit…_

If the RED Medic _did_ leave, or actually high-tail it to Boston, then that leaves Scout with two options.

One, he could manually haul everyone into the car by himself and pray to god his basic driving skills kick into full gear for a smooth ride.

Or two, he could find the least wasted person in this room and somehow convince them to help him get these idiots back to the base.

Of course he was all for option two. But, recalling past events, the only other person in here who was remotely sober and _hasn’t_ ingested pure ethanol... is...

_Aw, crap..._

That only person is...

_Freakin’ unbelievable..._

As his options weigh thin, the Scout finds himself apprehensively turning to the BLU Medic’s corner, the staticky tune of Tom Jones’s _It’s Not Unusual_ suddenly less groovy.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Don’t drink ethanol, kids.


	3. Treaty of Cheap Whiskey

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Hello again!
> 
> I swear this fic was meant to be only 2 chapters. This happens every time I start something. Oh well.
> 
> I’ve extended this to 4 chapters because otherwise this chapter would be waayyy too long.

“Guten tag.”

A blank statement with a blank stare. It was more of a deadpan affirmation than a greeting.

Given the circumstances, the RED Scout finds it unsettling.

“He-hey, uhh, _vee geets_?” he tries, fumbling over his own words. “Is — is dat how ya say dat?”

“ _Wie geht’s_ ,” the BLU corrects. His accent rolls off his tongue like water, changing the _geets_ into a sound similar to _gates._

“Wie geht’s,” the Scout repeats, nodding in confirmation. The corner is no different than before, yet suspiciously grim with the way the BLU is glaring at him like one would to a bug on a table. He’d ask what the hell his problem is—try to ascertain some tough guy physique—but his cover had been blown a long time ago, when he stumbled over here mistaking the BLU for his own medic.

And now it looks like he’s come crawling back…

It's so embarrassing he’s almost forgotten why he came over here.

“Vhat do you vant?”

The BLU Medic doesn’t sound too thrilled about this, either.

“What do I want? Nothin’ really, why? What’s it to ya?”

“Becauze you are here, talking to me. You did not fix zhe jukebox.”

“What? Oh,” Scout recalls his earlier, panicked goodbye, “dat’s—yeah, dat. Uhh… it was fine, I think… yeah.” Scratching awkwardly at his neck, the runner tries to avert to any location other than the BLU suited man in front of him. He decides to land on the empty mug on the table. There’s a feeling of uncertainty pooling in his chest.

“I vould razher vait until tomorrow to fight, to be honest vith you,” the BLU Medic declares with his head in his hands. “But I can help you vith zhe jukebox, mein _Gegner._ ”

He starts ascending from the creaky wooden chair with the enthusiasm of a dead man. Scout’s puzzled mind washes clean once he realizes what the older man is getting at, briskly scouring for words to pause the situation.

“Hey, wait a second ‘ere, um, dat’s—dat ain’t why I’m ova ‘ere, man.”

And just like that he plops back down. “Nein, zhen. Vhy are you back here?”

…Damn it all.

He feels so stupid all of a sudden.

“Well, y’see,” Scout tentatively confesses. “Four of my otha teammates are ‘ere wit’ me, an’—well, actually, five, countin’ my _own_ doc, which is actually why I came ova ‘ere before, I was tryin’ ta find ‘im myself, but _you_ were there, an’ I still can’t find ‘im—”

“ _Mein Gott_ , I do not have all night, schveinhund.”

“ _Rrrrright._ Okay so, what I’m tryin’ ta say is, my freakin’ Medic’s missin’, the otha four are drunk as hell, an’ I need—need ya help, dude.”

The stressed words put rashes on his skin.

Forgive him, Ma.

She _did_ always say it's okay to ask someone for help. Do the rules still apply if that someone is a sworn enemy?

Scout decides not to dwell on that right now.

There’s silence after that, terrible silence, despite the rocking tunes of the jukebox and horrible banters of drunk dudes around them. The Scout starts to wonder if he’s made a grave mistake—this conversation alone could affect battle outcomes in the future—he’s suddenly recalling stories of the butterfly effect he’d been told by his older brothers. One action leads to large consequences.

Will he get in trouble for this?

What will the BLU Medic tell the rest of his team? What will they think?

What will _his_ team think?

If they found out he’s been fraternizing with the enemy?

Soldier loved throwing that word around, so of course Scout knew what it meant. In hindsight, this is all a horrible, horrible idea.

What would _Miss Pauling_ say?

Oh god.

_Oh god._

He can still fix this—turn around now, forget this ever happened, and deal with the problem himself.

“Help you?”

Unfortunately, that idea will never see the light of day.

“Ach, vhy did you not just say so? Fine. I vill help. Vhat is it?”

…

...what?

Scout is too stunned to talk. The BLU is already hoisting himself out of the seat again. From there there’s an obvious difference between him and his RED counterpart — this dude is really damn _tall._

“Hold up, ya actually wanna help?”

“ _Ja,_ ” the BLU states matter-of-factly. As if to say, _duh._ “I am a Medic. Vhat else am I supposed to do?”

“Good point. Wait, no…”

Shouldn’t it be _obvious_ what the issue is here? RED, getting help from BLU? The Administrator would faint from just thinking about it! By now they should be spilling each other’s blood like asylum patients! The BLU doesn’t even look bothered! Calm as a lake!

“Zhe beer here iz disgustang,” he scoffs with a flourish. “It tastes like cardboard und I have zhe vorst _migräne_ imaginable. Zhe rest of _mein_ team iz a pain in zhe _arsch_.”

He cringes when someone stumbles a little too close, glaring daggers at the woozy drunk. The Scout would have high-tailed it right then and there if he could, maybe return to the egg hunt for his own Medic, but this guy’s vibe doesn’t sit right with him. His legs aren’t listening to him, freezing in place where he stands. Already there is a noticeable contrast between the Medic twins. The RED Medic isn’t usually so… _blunt._

The Scout stutters, “Cool, but, don’t it botha ya dat we—y’know—?”

“Are on oppozing sides? _Herr_ Scout, I do not care vhich side iz vhat. I do not care who is who. I have nozhing better to do. You are all valking pilez of _fleish_ , anyvay.”

…What was with the dead man’s tone at the end there?

“Oookay… so dat means you’ll help me? I ain’t—I ain’t lookin’ ta fight or nothin’...”

“For zhe last time, _yes._ ”

“An’ ya won’t tell _no one_ ‘bout dis, right?”

“ _Keine zusagen_.”

“Huh?”

“Just show me vhat zhe issue iz.”

“Right, uhh, follow me.”

The Scout carves through the crowd with the BLU tagging behind. It's unnerving, having someone wearing the opposite color chase after him, but as they draw closer to his table the disconcertion steadily lifts off his shoulders. A new dilemma approaches.

How fitting — Tom Jones’s _It's Not Unusual_ ends the moment they reach their destination.

And what a sight.

The Engineer is right where the Scout had left him. Face down on the table, arms like spaghetti, no distinct movements at all. BLU Medic’s face at the revelation sure is something to remember. He looks to Scout, then to Engineer, then back to Scout, like he’s trying to make sure this isn’t some kind of sick joke.

It's not. “Da hardhat drove da car ‘ere, an’ dat’s da main issue, to be real, but we’ll deal wit’ dat when we get to it.”

“Right… iz he dead?”

“I dunno. He drank some vodka stuff earlier.”

“How much?”

“Da whole thing, like _dis_ _freakin’ much_ ,” Scout extends his arms. “Anyway, I jus’ need help gettin’ dese douchebags to da car right now.”

The other man shuts his mouth as he observes the runner taking the first course of action. Thanks to the Engineer's lack of locomotion, he weighs twice as much as he did earlier, nearly taking the runner down with him as he’s lifted up. BLU Medic hustles to his aid, holding the shorter man’s arm while Scout handles the other. He takes this opportunity to check his pulse.

“He iz alive,” he assures. “Just very… drunk, I suppose.”

To be honest, Scout doesn’t care if Engineer’s dead or not. That’s what he gets for not reading the label before drinking.

At some point all the movement and commotion must have stirred him awake, because a few seconds after they get the hardhat on his feet, he starts fussing like he’d had a nightmare, nearly causing the two to drop him.

“Jesus,” Scout breathes. “Yo hardhat, you good?”

“No, ah’ feel like ah’m about to die.” Engineer’s voice is clear as day.

“Zhat is zhe alcohol,” BLU Medic pipes in.

“Sawbones?” Engineer perks. He grins at Scout. “Ya found sawbones?”

“Y-yeah, sure…”

“Whoo-wee!”

Staggering, he finally manages to get on his feet, awkwardly balancing as he’s led out the door and away from the toxic noise. An ambience of crickets welcome them in the dusty desert air. By instinct Engineer directs his head to the sky, countless stars ornating the oily blanket above. Why, that set of stars right there looks like a pony! A pretty pony, fit for a pony god. The prettiest pony god.

“Where we goin’?” He hums with a goofy smile.

“Home,” the Scout deadpans. BLU Medic keeps himself out of sight. Who knows what might happen if the Engineer sees him?

“Home?”

“Yeah. Or, da base, I guess.”

“Ponies don’t live in th’ base, string bean…”

Good thing the drunk can’t see the Scout rolling his eyes. “Hate to break it to ya pal, but ya ain’t a pony. Or a god. You’re a dude who builds machines.”

“...No?”

He sounds heartbroken.

Yeah, Scout is sure the BLU Medic has never seen something like this before. If he finds this crap funny, he’s doing a good job at hiding it, because his face hasn’t changed since they exited. He begrudgingly forces the drunk to get used to walking on his own.

“Sawbones can make me a pony.”

Oh no.

Engineer starts twisting his head to get a good look at the BLU. “Can’tcha?”

_OH NO—_

In a deft movement of panic, the German eases the Texan’s head forward, avoiding eye contact as his breath hitches and the Scout clears his throat so loudly it could have been mistaken for a car engine. Both him and the Scout share a frantic glance. There’s no resistance met, Engineer simply allowing his head to be set straight in the direction of the parking lot.

“... _Nein, das kann ich jetzt nicht_.”

Scout’s heart nearly stopped. That was close. Too close. Even in his drunk state, Engineer’s not a complete moron. The man laughs a little as he processes the BLU’s harshly accented answer. He turns to Scout again.

“Whut did ‘e say?”

He’s met with a shrug. “Hell if I know, dude. Anyway, look, we’re ‘ere.”

“Th’ base?”

“No—da _car_. We ain’t at da base yet. Open your eyes.”

The car itself isn’t very impressive, not a fancy convertible like the celebrities have, but an old crimson station wagon that totally isn’t owned by a group of paid killers. BLU Medic has no open remarks about it whatsoever, which is probably for the better. His blue tinted outfit is a heavy contrast to the pigment.

Taking a step back, the doctor leaves Scout to handle the rest, wordlessly handing off the Engineer. He’s behind the car and out of sight of the windshield. This time he watches closely, intriguingly. The passenger door opens and the BLU is nearly _chloroformed_ by the sudden stench of old cigarette smoke and ash. There’s also a light hint of scrumpy.

Luckily there was no issue in getting the Engineer _inside_ the car. Scout swiftly snatches the keys from the man’s pocket, being a little more sneaky than he intended to, and shoves them down inside his own. With that, he slams the car door shut. A tiny _blonk_ follows—oh shit, Engineer hit his head off the window…

Well, that’s what the helmet’s for! He’ll be fine! Hopefully. Long as that ethanol doesn’t kill him first.

One down, three to go.

“Fascinating…”

Oop. Scout almost forgot about BLU Medic.

The doctor has his face transfixed into deep concentration. Thumb up to his chin, one arm propping up the other. It's similar to the face the RED Medic would make upon sight of something surreal, supernatural, or sometimes just plain human bodies in the process of decomposition, maybe even watching the blood dry…

…Whatever he's thinking, Scout doesn’t want to know. Unfortunately, that thought won’t live very long.

“Zhe effects of alcohol on _zhis_ Engineer iz drastically different zhan _mein_ Engineer…”

Oh.

That’s what he’s focused on?

“Is it?”

“Ja… interesting… very interesting…”

He nods slowly with a sly grin stretching across his face. There are the _similarities_ , then…

The Scout rolls his eyes. Whatever’s going on in that head, he doesn’t like it one bit. “Not to rain on ya parade, but I got like, three more weirdos to haul out ‘ere.”

“Ja, ja, I hear you. I vill help. I vant to see vhat zhey are doing… have zhey had enough to drink as vell?”

Did he have to say it like that…? RED or BLU, the Scout still thinks the Medic is creepy as fuck. Maybe it’s the singular mug of beer that’s got him suddenly acting more jovial than before, but the runner would rather kick his ass than go into research on that. Yeah, that’d be a blast.

“Ain’t too sure myself, but I ain’t lettin’ ya cut ‘em open ta find out.”

The BLU bursts a laugh. “Hahaha! Who zaid anyzhing about zhat?”

“You’re da one dat’s laughin’.” Scout starts trotting back toward the building, noticing a letter on the old sign flickering off and on. He locks the car behind him.

BLU Medic quickly catches up. “Haha. Zhe idea doez sound _faszinieren_ , yes. Just for tonight, I vill hold back, hm?”

“Is dat s’pposed ta be a joke?”

“You could zay I am _betrunken_ on zhis discovery!” he quips with a finger raised high.

“I dunno what dat means.”

“Ach. _Vergiss_ _es_.” 

Now that he mentions it, Scout _does_ have to admit it is a little interesting to know both sides aren’t exact _clones_ of each other. The BLU Medic has thus far been very straightforward, indifferent, and right now, of all things, _helpful._ He _actually_ helped Scout, who is _not_ on his team, with a problem outside the field.

The Scout had been too stunned to think about the implications of it earlier. Looking back on it now, though, he is struck with a sense of… tumult. None of this adds up. Not in Scout’s book.

He grimaces, pausing at the entrance, hand on the doorknob. “Yo… what are ya doin’ out ‘ere on your own? An’ why are ya helpin’ me, anyway...?”

“Vhy not?”

An immediate answer.

Not the answer he was looking for.

“Why not—you’re helpin’ da _otha team_ , dude. I ain’t too comfortable wit’ dis myself.”

“You are zhe one who asked me, dummkopf.”

“Yeah I know! But you’re da one dat _agreed!_ ” 

There’s a pause. Then a sigh. “I feel inclined to. I am a Medic, and zhat iz _mein_ job. I am out here becauze I vanted to have a drink on mein own. Zhough, I am more curious to know vhy you have decided to seek _mein_ assistance, actually…”

“You’re da only one in dis shithole who ain’t drunk enough, dat’s it.”

It was the truth, but the BLU doesn’t seem to buy it. “So you vould have gone to _anyvone_ else if zhey were not acting like _ein schwachsinnige_?”

“No—yes, in fact I would. If dere wuz _anybody_ else in dis place who ‘adn’t lost ‘is marbles, I woulda gone ta’ ‘im right away. Dis ain’t makin’ me ‘ave any different opinions ‘bout ya, ya weirdo.”

Scout doesn’t linger long enough to hear the Medic’s response. He swings the door open to release the muffled racket from inside, promptly stomping further in.

Part of that was a lie. The Scout would have gladly selected anyone else, that was true, but not forming a new outlook on the enemy BLU was entirely false. This whole circus act with his teammates wasn’t on the agenda tonight, let alone getting a helping hand from the enemy, but as the president once said, anything can happen in baseball.

Something like that.

Scout would dwell on the inspiring part of it if he wasn’t losing his own marbles right now.

The BLU Medic is… unlike the RED Medic. Nothing too discrete appearance wise, yet there _is_ something slightly ajar in the personalities. Usually the RED Medic is overly crazed with the idea of human evolution, more often than not quoting Charles’ Darwin to make valid arguments. Scout once rummaged through the geezer’s stuff out of curiosity and, well, he hasn’t stepped foot near the Infirmary ever since he almost got a heart attack from a random Spy’s _head_ in the fridge. _Kill me_ , it said with pleading eyes.

Yet the BLU Medic is able to keep a normal conversation in public with a straight face. He still gives Scout the creeps, sure, but he’s more… what’s the word… _sedated_. Not as outlandish as Scout had expected. The only exception to that falls in the category when he agreed to help without any second thoughts. But the runner won’t admit he was kind of glad about it. That doesn’t mean he will hesitate to beat the freak’s brains to a pulp at the drop of a hat, though.

He isn’t even sure if the RED Medic would even _care_ to help him with the team right now… Heavy, probably, but that’s about it.

Speaking of Heavy, it's easy to spot him and the other morons. Apparently they’ve entered another tournamen- _THEY’VE ENTERED ANOTHER TOURNAMENT?!_

Scout full on _bolts_ to the front of the bar, crashing into numerous random stragglers in a newfound panic at the realization that _they are literally drinking ethanol_. There he finds Chett Massachusetts incessantly supplying them with more than just _Devil Springs Vodka_ , all the while smiling like a huge goddamn idiot. 

Demo’s got a crowd around him yelling _CHUG! CHUG!_ while he slowly kills his liver by pouring the stuff down his gullet, and Heavy’s performing some kind of weird soliloquy in fluent Russian atop a table—something about Sascha.

And then there’s Soldier. Standing on the bar.

“I wasss born during the _sssspeakeasy era_ , maggot! Pressssident— _hic_ —Sssam dared ussss to do it, told us not to do it, and… and _WE DID IT!!_ We did it because… because America won the right to kill hippies! Libby Montana watchessss over thiss country!”

He sounds like his tongue and brain stopped functioning. That or he’s gradually becoming a snake.

“Hah!” Demo hoots, swinging his empty bottle to rile everyone up. “Yer nae makin’ sense, lad! Wot did ‘e dare ye ta’ do?!”

 _“DRINK!”_ screams Soldier.

“An’ wot did ye do?!”

_“DRANK!!”_

_“WOT IS ‘E NOO, LADS?!!”_

_“_ ** _DRUNK!!_** _”_ finished the entire establishment. Soldier screeches, smashing the nearest bottle over his helmet with vigor, instantly shattering it.

“Опьянен любовью к Саше!”

The Scout can’t even hear himself _think!_ He meets Chett Massachusetts face-to-face across the bar and yells, “I thought ya said ya ran out ten minutes ago?!”

“What’d you say?” Chett yells back.

_“Why are dey drinkin’ if dere’s nothin’ left?!”_

“Oh. There isn’t,” Scout can hardly hear him anyway, “these fellers just said to give them the rest of the _‘clear stuff’_.”

 _“Dat’s ETHANOL,_ _jackass!!”_

“Oh. They still paid for it, though.”

They **_paid—!_ **

They paid for **_rubbing alcohol!_ **

They paid for it and are **_drinking it!!_ **

It hasn’t even been another five minutes since Engineer was dragged away! What the hell _happened_ in here?! Why does all the cool stuff happen when Scout’s not around?!

His head is going to flip from this insanity, and the worst part is that as this sentence is being written he is being offered shots of ethanol from Chett himself— _Have a drink, kid. Sorry I poked fun at you._ _Let loose a little._

Oh sure! He’ll let loose the day Hell freezes over!

“О Саша, мой милый Саша, я люблю тебя до Сербии и обратно!”

Scout quickly remembered that he was here _with_ someone and whirled back to the entrance. There, at complete and utter loss, was the wide-eyed BLU Medic. He has the look of someone who just witnessed a disabled person get up from their wheelchair and go on a hike.

The Scout signals for the BLU amidst the chaos, regrouping and just taking a second to process this ridiculous situation.

“Vhat zhe hell.”

“Don’t ask me.”

“Вместе, милый Саша, мы перехитрили пулю!”

Demo keels over, apparently ending his chugging streak as he transforms into a wasted mess on the floor. Someone must have cranked the jukebox up to full blast because even with the distance set, Scout is hardly able to hear anything over the static background noise and cacophonous sounds of Soldier screeching his lungs out.

 _“WE WILL_ **_NOT_ ** _GIVE UP, MEN!”_ He actually has an impressive crowd forming. “Canada hassss taken Lieutenant… Lieutenant Waterloo hossstage… an’... _AN’ WE WILL SHOW THOSE MAGGOTSSS…_ what happensss when they- _SHUT IT COMMIE!!”_ He’s turned to Heavy now. “You are **_NOT_ ** welcome to the Lassst Supper…!”

The tone of Soldier and the way he so rudely interrupted the soliloquy creates a muted hush among the room. Heavy pauses in his speech, tension rising as the Russian turns to the American, eyes narrowed like a wild tiger. 

The Heavy however, instead of punching the man’s lights out, gives the warmest of smiles, joins the red-coated Soldier on the bar countertop, and despite the vicious stance and glare given to him, he opens his arms and says the most outrageous thing that could possibly come out of his mouth. “We do not have to fight. Soldier is friend, da?”

“Friendssss are for _hippiesss_ ! An’ I… I… am _GLAD_ to have _YOU_ as my friend, private!”

The Soldier happily accepts the embrace and slings an arm over Heavy, his demeanor suddenly flipped around, having the bite of a newborn kitten. Together they laugh and dance to the beat of the old staticky tunes of the jukebox, creating an awful chorus of a mashup between O Canada and the Soviet Anthem. Applause erupts from the crowd, even from Chett Massachusetts himself, brought to tears from the wholesome scene in front of them.

“Well I’ll be! I feel like I just saw the beginning and end of a war!”

Suddenly, Demo’s back on his feet, “Aye, Russia an’ America ‘ave signed a peace treaty, eh? Sounds ta’ me like et deserves a bloody _drink!_ Wot doo’ya say, lads?!”

_“DANCE, MAGGOTS!!”_

“Вы использовали переводчик, чтобы прочитать это!”

This is the weirdest fucking day of Scout’s life.

“Do zhey…” the BLU sounds as if he saw a ghost, “do zhey usually act like zhis…?”

“No, dey… dey don’t _eva_ act like dis… I have no words…”

“Ja, me too…”

“Yeah… also, I jus’ realized… dere’s anotha problem ‘ere.”

“Und vhat is zhat?”

Scout casts his eyes to the BLU’s blue clothing. “Ya ain’t wearin’ red…”

BLU Medic takes a look down at himself. There, he sees blue. Not red. “...Nein… indeed I am not.”

That is…

That is also very bad.

The Engineer would have probably lost his mind if he had seen that a BLU was walking him back to the car. Brutal images of what could possibly happen to him if the RED Soldier or Heavy saw him flashes through the BLU’s head, each one way too disturbing to his liking.

This is quite the predicament…

A predicament that requires some intellectual thinking.

“I might ‘ave a plan.”

The BLU quirks a brow at Scout, intrigued. “You do not expect me to get near zhem, do you?” he asks warily.

“Well… yes, but—”

“ _Absolut nicht._ ”

“No no no, hold on a second!” he just barely stops the BLU from leaving the building. “Hear me out!”

“Nein. I am not going to be killed becauze I helped some dummkopf take hiz _schveinhunds_ back to a vehicle. Now move, I am leaving.”

“Listen ta me—”

The Scout had struggled to keep the Medic at bay, fighting against the obvious reasons why even stepping in the REDs’ lines of sight is a terrible idea in all four corners. He was just about to spew the details of his genius plan when all of a sudden—

“Ah! Doktor! You are back.”

The hairs on their necks stand at attention, a harsh yet merry Russian accent crashing a tidal wave of dread onto their nerves. The Scout sees a tall, red silhouette approaching the BLU Medic, whose eyes have widened to the size of dinner plates.

_Oh no._

_Holy shit._

“With leetle Scout.”

Everything suddenly sounds so far away again, as a bone-chilling shiver arises in the pits of the Scout and Medic’s guts.

“Heavy has written spiel about Sascha. Would Doktor like to hear?”

In the background, Soldier and Demo have gathered a troop of drunk men marching along to the beat of Tom Jones’s _Keep on Running_.


End file.
